


Keep writing, Snorri

by Polemokrateia



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Eddas, Gen, History
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:58:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polemokrateia/pseuds/Polemokrateia
Summary: A certain God is curious, a certain writer does not like guests, a certain story demands to be told.Meanwhile, history never really moves on.





	Keep writing, Snorri

The flame flickers with the urgency of a trapped bird.   
How many more fat, smelly candles will the "Gylfaginning" devour? Will it even matter to anyone?   
Old tales, old poems, rusty ideals in a world that devours and regurgtiates itself every moment. Most barely care enough to keep up with current matters.   
Kennings, old-fashioned stiff drottkvaett - how long until nostalgia and a certain amount of respect for those are finally replaced with ridicule?  
The man sitting at the table sighs, making the candle waver even more. One tiny circle of light, traces of ink on old reused vellum that are supposed to mean something, but by now just serve to make his vision blurry. Is anything else in his life real?  
Snorri Sturlusson can never tell.  
Ancient stories are ridiculous and empty. Ancient stories are the only thing that gives a colorless world substance and spirit. They are both. They are neither. Waste of time.  
They will never let him go. Might as well enjoy the company of demons that refuse to be exorcised.  
(Not that he tried all that hard).  
Speaking of demons. He was supposed to finish writing about...  
\- Let`s see what you`ve got here. "Loki is comely to look upon, but evil in spirit, very fickle in habit.   
He surpasses other men in that wisdom which is called 'sleight,' and has artifices for all occasions;   
he would ever bring the ?sir into great hardships, and then get them out with crafty counsel... blah blah blah". A bit dry, but acceptable. Don`t mind me,   
Snorri, keep writing. Unless rudely staring at guests is part of the creative process, of course.  
The logsogumadr was not expecting anyone. Especially no redheaded strangers with vulpine grins. Who blithely inspect his unfinished work like they are entitled to it.  
\- Who are you and who let you in?  
\- I let myself in. As for the first question... really, Snorri? Why so thick?  
Genuine disappointment shows on his expressive face. Fingers, still hovering over the page, begin a strange dance - angular, sharp...  
Four signs in the air.  
The mortal swallows a lump in his throat.  
\- No.  
\- Yes.   
\- That`s hardly possible. For somebody so ancient, you look lively indeed, and if you were a demon, this - Snorri quickly makes the sign of the cross -   
would have banished you.  
\- Says who?  
\- Say the men of the Church.  
\- Such knowledgeable, honest people, - the stranger makes no attempt to hide his sarcasm.  
\- You`re one to talk, Lie-smith.  
\- I mess with people`s heads in style. They are just full of Valfodr`s piss.  
\- This is where I stop listening and wash my ears clean of your venom.  
\- Do feel free. I`m not stopping you, your own curiosity is.  
The logsogumadr shakes his head in disbelief. This conversation should not be happening  
Piercing green eyes regard him knowingly - brighter than the Lokabrenna star, deeper than Ginnungagap itself.   
Ah, if only humanity could ever overcome the demon of curiosity.  
\- You would become pieces of wood, like Askr and Embla. Only way to avoid what your church would call "sin". Even animals are not entirely innocent.  
The mortal can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end like hedgehog needles  
\- Now you are reading my thoughts.  
\- Not much of a feat. You`re disappointingly transparent.   
\- If you think such tricks are proof of your divinity, think again. That`s devil`s work  
\- Don`t assume I care what you believe.  
\- What are you doing here, than?  
\- You mean, what am *I* doing here. Instead of, say, Odinn, or Hlorridi, or Yngvi.   
\- The father of lies hardly seems the best figure to convince any sane man that heathen gods exist.  
\- That is not my kenning, Sturlungr. And I am not here to convince anybody of anything.  
Do you believe curiosity only affects the children of Rig?  
\- Meaning, you are here just to see what I am writing? If so, how close to the truth are those accounts? You certainly do not look like an old sorcerer from Asia.  
The God offers a lazy shrug.  
\- Truth and words don`t really mix. Go wild, euhemerize as much as you like. It`s just a pattern on a veil covering what really matters.  
\- And what is supposed to "really matter"?  
The invader merely holds a finger to smiling lips. Hush, the gesture says. Silence is divine.  
Snorri doesn`t like silence.  
\- That`s not helpful. I want to make sense of all these legends. Demons? Gods? Which?  
\- We are who we are. Same applies to you. Those who want can find their own words.  
\- Are you planning to return eventually?  
\- We are not planning on leaving in the first place.  
\- The church is little inclined to tolerate you.  
\- We are not asking their permission.   
\- You are suggesting you do not depend on worship. Because nobody of consequence believes in you anymore.   
\- Mortals and gods can thrive without each other just fine. It`s merely less exciting that way.  
\- Oh, fret not, kings of men are perfectly able to fill life with excitement without divine help.  
Neither do you seem well-disposed towards boredom.  
Loki`s laughter is surprisingly lacking in malice, and for a moment the air in Snorri`s abode feels like the first breath of spring.   
\- No, I am not. The world is too vast for that. Meanwhile, you keep telling your story.   
\- Why?  
\- Because there are humans who need it. And there will be - a thousand years from now.  
Snorri sighs, and shrugs. It was not possible for him to stop anyway.  
For the time being, the logsogumadr is left one-on-one with a half-filled page and confused thoughts. Ink-stained hands are just as capable of reaching   
through the ages as blood-soaked ones, and some words, even ridiculous ones, last innumerable lifetimes...  
Would it be so difficult to hear his voice even now, if one cared to listen?


End file.
